Hangman
by P.L. Wynter
Summary: The shortest hanging in history lasted seven seconds. Oh to be so lucky. Sam and Dean take on a hunt where one brother will be marked for execution.
1. Chapter 1

Hangman

Chapter One

"Welcome to Bumfuck, USA."

Sam looked up as his brother slid into the booth across from him. A disgusted look crossed his face as he set a cup of coffee in front of Sam and then looked down at his own. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Sammy," Dean complained. "I asked for coffee and this is what I got. They try to pass off this brown sludge as something edible. We should add Holy Water just to be sure it won't eat us from the inside out." Dean reached and grabbed three packets of creamers, pouring them in without hesitation. He had spoken just loud enough to earn a few glances from some of the small diner's patrons. God, you couldn't take him anywhere.

A smile crossed Sam's lips as he listened to his brother bitch and moan. Dean had been in a foul mood ever since they'd entered Arkansas. He hadn't asked what had gotten his brother's panties into such a twist, but he guessed it had something to do with the lack of action they'd seen in the past couple of weeks, both from hunting and from their father. Sam couldn't blame him. After Chicago, they'd decided to separate, or at least Dean had decided, and since then they'd only heard from him once. Coordinates, because apparently John Winchester only spoke in longitude and latitude anymore.

Dean was getting restless. It happened when there was too much down time. As much as his brother loved to advocate fun and frequent bars and hustle pool or darts, there always came a point where Dean would start feeling like he was slacking off, not doing his job. Sam could tell when his brother had reached this point. It always turned Dean into a bellyaching old woman. And it amused Sam to no end.

"Don't like the whole Aliens thing, huh?" Sam asked, watching Dean sip at the coffee and frown in the way little kids do when they try something they don't like for the first time. Dean set the cup down and stared at it to make sure it stayed in its place.

"Sigourney Weaver's hot and everything, but the whole alien babies popping out of people's stomachs is a real turn off," Dean said in a monotone voice, his eyes never leaving the coffee. Sam wondered if Dean was being serious. But then his brother looked up at him and licked his lips. "So, please tell me you have something."

"I have something," Sam answered, scrolling on his laptop.

Dean seemed to perk up and that and he clapped his hands together, ready to listen. He muttered a quick, "Finally."

Sam chuckled and shook his head. "A few somethings, actually. The stars must be aligned right or...something, because we have some choices here."

"Well come on already, Aristotle" Dean urged, rolling is hand.

Sam raised his eyebrows, unable to pass up the chance to annoy his brother. "What, are you on a schedule or something?"

Dean growled and reached for the laptop. "Give me that," he said. Sam slapped his hands away, to which Dean gave a surprised guffaw. "Oh you wanna be like that?"

"Just pay attention," Sam chided, grinning as Dean gave an exasperated sigh. "Choice number one, kid sets himself on fire and walks away without a single burn on his body." Dean seemed impressed, but not too interested so Sam went on. "Choice number two, a guy claims his toilet is possessed after it swallows his cat." Dean snorted and shook his head. "Or choice number three, and my personal favorite, a suspected serial killer in Palona, Arkansas has killed nine people within the last four months. All of them hanged," he paused, for dramatic effect, and to see Dean's death glare if he didn't get to the point, "and no murder weapons found."

Dean leaned back, putting an arm up on the booth and looked contemplative. "It could just be a serial killer," he said simply.

Sam shook his head. "No, there's no signs of struggle at any of the scenes and," Sam turned the laptop around so Dean could read it. "Days before the victims died, some claimed to have heard and seen 'strange things' following them around."

"Strange things, huh?" Dean asked, tilting his head forward to read the article. Sam waited for him to finish. "Well I guess if there's strange things involved it must be our kind of gig, right?" Dean's voice was too sarcastic for Sam's liking. He reached forward and grabbed the laptop away, closing it with a scowl.

"Well if you're gonna be a bitch about it I guess we could just stay here-"

"No," Dean broke in, surprising Sam with his eagerness. "We've done jobs off of less." That was certainly true. "So people getting hung, huh?"

Sam nodded. "Nine victims, a variety of different backgrounds, and never in the same place. Some were killed in their homes, one at work, a lady in her shower, and one guy in his car."

"How can you get hung in a car?" Dean asked incredulously.

With a shrug Sam said, "Got me." Sam took a sip of the coffee Dean had handed him before turning up his nose and placing it next to Dean's in the no man's land of the table top. "You wanna go talk to the families? See if they saw or heard anything?"

"Yeah," Dean said distractedly. "He really got hung in a car? Are you sure it wasn't just a strangling?"

"That's what the coroner's report said," Sam defended himself. "Distinctive marks of a hanging, not strangulation."

"Well we'll pay him a visit too-"

"Her."

"What?" Dean asked, his eyebrows raising.

"The coroner, Dr. Becky Lashinger," Sam said, watching first surprise then annoyance flash across Dean's face.

"Dude, whatever," Dean snapped. He stood up, grabbing his jacket. "Come on," he demanded and grumbled, "Hung in a car, that's the craziest thing I've ever heard," all the way to the Impala.

Sam gave a chafed laugh and shook his head. Oh it was too easy to annoy his brother. He gathered his stuff together and followed Dean, grinning the whole way.

---

It was an hour drive to Palona. Most of the trip was quiet except for a few mumblings from Dean about unnecessary stoplights and "slow ass drivers." When they finally pulled up in front of a two story farm house, Sam was more than ready to get started. Anything to get Dean out of the funk he was in, because in all honesty, Sam would prefer a annoying Dean to a grumpy Dean any day. There was only room for one grump in this relationship and Sam had already laid claim to that title.

Getting out of the car, Sam looked up at the house, feeling mild trepidation course through him. He shook himself, trying to make the feeling go away, not really knowing where it was coming from. But instead of going away it seemed to collect itself and wedge into the bottom of Sam's stomach, waiting for the perfect opportunity to spring, claws barred, ready to bring on the panic.

"Sam?" Dean's voice snapped him out of it and he turned to look at him over the top of the car. Dean was watching him, foul mood gone but replaced with something much worse, worry. Sam hated that side of Dean. He'd seen too much of it recently. "You all right there?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "I mean, this house just feels...creepy." Dean glanced at the house, giving it a once over with his eyes before turning back to Sam, obviously not picking up on the same vibes. "Yeah, nevermind," Sam licked his lips.

Dean paused for a moment, torn between wanting to get Sam the hell away from this house if they'd just pulled up and already his brother was having bad vibes, or going on inside to talk to the family. In the end, he decided to go inside, but to keep an extra close eye on Sam. He didn't know when Sam had turned into his own personal human EMF meter, but he trusted Sam's vibes more than he trusted the actual equipment sometimes.

"Here," Dean said at last, tossing an ID over to his brother and heading towards the front door.

Sam looked down at the ID. "FBI?" he asked, taking two long strides to catch up with his brother.

"Sure, why not?" Dean answered nonchalantly.

"No it's just," Sam shrugged. "We haven't done this one in a while."

Dean rang the doorbell and turned to look at him, frowning. "So?" Sam just shook his head in response. "What's up with you lately?"

"What?" Sam asked, surprised at the question. Lately? What did he mean by that? Dean was the one who'd been acting strange. "Nothing. You're the one whose been pissy, what's up with you?" he retorted, unsure why he felt so insulted that Dean would think something was wrong with him. Hell, he'd actually been happy the past couple of weeks. Or, at least happier than he'd been in a while.

Dean looked shocked and angered. "What are you talking about, I haven't been pissy."

"Yes you have," Sam argued, wondering again why they were arguing over this in the first place.

"Have not."

The front door opened and any further argument ceased as the brothers turned to smile warmly at the woman standing there. She was older, graying hair, pudgy from age. She looked wearily at them. "Can I help you gentlemen?" Her voice soft, warm, timid.

"Hello, Mrs. Carlton?" Dean asked, collecting himself and holding up the ID. Sam did the same. "I'm Agent Dall, this is Agent Michaels, from the FBI." He put down the badge and continued before the woman had a chance to say anything. "We were wondering if we could talk to you about your son, Roger?"

"The FBI?" Mrs. Carlton asked, her eyes widening. "But I've already spoken to you."

Sam took a step forward, sensing his brother's frustration ebbing out onto this poor old woman. "We know Mrs. Carlton, this is just a follow up inquiry. Dottin' all our i's." She studied him for a moment before seeming to accept the answer and open the screen door. "Thank you," Sam said politely, following her into the house.

Dean was at his heels but stopped when they got to the hallway on the way to the living room. Sam felt his brother elbow him in the back and turned with an "Ow," present on his lips, but it fell away as he saw Dean had something actually relevant to show him. He was holding up a framed picture of Roger Carlton. Sam's eyebrows rose in surprise at the man's stature. He was huge. A freaking body builder. In the picture he was posing with his friends, getting ready to play baseball.

"This guy was Goliath," Dean muttered. "Take a lot of muscle to hang a guy like that."

Sam nodded curtly before walking into the living room where Mrs. Carlton was taking a seat on the sofa. She looked around the room nervously, folding her hands on her lap and wringing her skirt. Sam tried to look as harmless as possible as he sat down across from her. Dean stood behind him, examining the room, letting Sam do the whole question and answer thing. They'd come to a silent agreement some time ago that Sam was better at asking the questions. Dean didn't have the patience, but Sam, all he had to do was pucker his face and people would spill the story of their lives to him. It drove Dean nuts.

"Mrs. Carlton," Sam started, ready to get down to business. The sooner he got the story out of this lady, the sooner they could get out of this house. The bad vibes hadn't stopped, hadn't lessened. He didn't like that. "You told the police that Roger had been talking about hearing things and seeing things before he died."

"Yes," Mrs. Carlton replied. She took in a deep breath and smiled at an empty chair at the back of the room. "Roger said that he felt like someone was following him. He kept spooking himself, that's what he did. Seeing things out of the corner of his eye, he got paranoid towards the end. Wouldn't go outside, wouldn't answer the phone."

Sam leaned forward. "What sort of things did he think he saw?"

"A man, mostly," she said quietly, picking at a button on her blouse. "He said he saw a man sometimes, in a black hood."

The piqued Sam's interest. He was about to ask another question when Dean came forward and pointed towards the kitchen. "Is that where you found him?" Sam winced at the abrupt question. So much for being sensitive. Mrs. Carlton nodded, however, undisturbed. "Mind if I..?"

"Go ahead," she nodded. Dean smiled his thanks and headed towards the kitchen. Sam caught him reaching into his coat pocket to pull out the EMF meter. He looked at Mrs. Carlton, she hadn't seen the motion.

"You said your son was hearing things as well?" Sam asked.

Mrs. Carlton sighed. "He said he heard things, but he was paranoid. He was losing his mind."

"Did he say what he heard?" Sam pushed, trying to keep the woman talking without making her close up completely. She didn't answer him. "Mrs. Carlton, any little detail could help. I need to know what he said he heard."

Sam watched the emotions play across Mrs. Carlton's face. She looked distressed, her eyes going to the stairway at the back of the room, looking for an escape maybe? Sam licked his lips and lowered his shoulders, urging her to go on by showing her he wasn't here to judge. He wouldn't laugh and call her son crazy. She looked at him and a half sob half laugh escaped her throat. "He heard whispering," her voice broke. "Always whispering. He said he couldn't make out the words, the voice was too soft. He said it sounded like..." she trailed off.

"Like what?" Sam asked quietly.

"Like they were choking."

Sam leaned back, trying not to look too surprised. He gave her a nervous half smile. But anything he had to say after that was cut off as Dean walked back into the hallway looking accomplished and a bit excited. "Hey Agent...whatsyourname, come here," he said, fumbling to remember the alias they'd chosen.

He shot a warning glare at him before turning back to Mrs. Carlton and saying, "Excuse me." He got up and walked over to Dean, grabbing his brother's arm and moving him out of Mrs. Carlton's sight. "Agent whatsyourname?" he asked angrily.

"Dude, chill," Dean commented and jerked his arm away. "She's not gonna do anything." Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, waiting for Dean to tell him what he had. His brother held up the EMF meter. "Check it out, EMF readings are through the roof. There was definitely something in that room. Something strong enough to nearly blow this thing's batteries."

"Yeah well Mrs. Carlton said her son was seeing a guy-"

"In a black hood, I heard that," Dean nodded.

"She also said he was hearing things," Sam added. "Someone whispering and it sounded like they were choking."

"Choking?" Dean asked, giving an interested "hmph" before scratching his cheek and saying, "So, what? You thinking spirit? Going around hanging people for kicks?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. Spirits usually haunt certain places or people. This thing is attacking at random and all over the place."

"Well, it's not entirely unheard of," Dean defended his thought.

"Yeah but, I don't know, Dean." Sam sighed. "We need to see the bodies."

"Oh my favorite," Dean said unamused. "Hanging out with a bunch of dead guys. All right, say goodbye to Grandma and let's get out of here. You still got that creepy feeling?" Sam nodded. "We're gonna have to be careful with this one."

Sam couldn't help the jest. "I thought you were always careful?"

Dean guffawed. "I am. But knowing you and your choking fetish, we're gonna have to be extra careful."

"I do not have a choking fetish," Sam huffed.

Dean held up his hands playfully. "Hey, your into the whole breath control play thing, I've got nothing against it. You find a girl that likes that, good for you." Dean turned towards the door and started heading for the car. "It's okay to have a fetish, Sammy."

"I do not have a choking fetish!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Roger Carlton turned out to be more of a giant than what he had seemed in the small framed picture they'd seen in the house. It'd taken some cajoling and smooth talking to get in to see the body, but the coroner's assistant had eventually let them back. When he'd pulled the body out of the metal hideaways, neither had been expecting the utter size of him. He'd bulked up since the picture was taken. If that was even possible.

The coroner's assistant stood by quietly as Sam bent down to look at the markings around Roger's neck. The ligature marks were horrendous. Deep purplish pink bruises and indents obviously made by a rope. Sam looked up at the young assistant, noticing the way he was looking at the body with an almost fearful expression. He was nervous. Sam smiled. They were in luck, he was new. Must be a grad student. He stood up and sighed for show.

"So, the cause of death was ruled a hanging?" Sam asked, giving the young man a stern look. He got the reaction he'd hoped for as the man shifted on his feet, eyes widening a fraction.

"Well, hanging was actually the method," the assistant said. "The cause of death was cardiac arrest. It's...typical of hanging. They asphyxiate from a closed airway so he was probably unconscious but the real cause of death is um...the closing of the carotid arteries which causes the heart to stop. It's how most short hanging victims die."

"Short hanging?" Sam asked.

The assistant smiled nervously. "I ah...I studied Historical Criminal Justice in school. We had an entire chapter on capital punishment." Sam quirked an eyebrow and the man let out a small chuckle, realizing he was rambling. "Um, a short hanging is one where there's little to no drop. It could be the victim is tied and then pulled up or, like most suicides, they could be standing on a chair or a desk and they simply step off. A uh, long-drop hanging is when the victim is dropped from a distance and usually the C.O.D is a cervical fracture, um, breaking of the neck." He spoke quickly and anxiously. Sam could tell he was excited to be sharing his knowledge with reputable sources. He felt slightly guilty for tricking the guy into thinking they were reputable.

Dean snorted softly. "You like studying that sort of thing?" Sam recognized the almost insulting tone in his brother's voice, but apparently the assistant didn't pick up on it.

"Oh yes," he agreed readily. "It's all very interesting to me."

"Huh," was the response from Dean as he walked around Sam and leaned down to look at Roger's hands, having caught sight of something there, though he watched the coroner's assistant for a second, appraising him with piqued curiosity.

Sam came to the man's rescue, bringing them both back from the verge of a conversation that would probably hurt some feelings. "So, all of the victims, they all died the same way? A short hanging?"

"Yes," the assistant nodded. "Clear indications of short hangings were found on all of the bodies."

"Even the dude in the car?" Dean asked, obviously still in disbelief. Sam turned to glare at him, giving him a 'be nice' look. Dean promptly ignored the look and raised his eyebrows in an almost challenging manner to the coroner's assistant.

Sam gave the guy brownie points for not even flinching. "Warren Carmichael. Yes. Even he has all the indications. It's not our job to make assumptions, but if you want my honest opinion, I'd say he was moved, even though lividity doesn't show any sign of it. It would just be impossible for these marks to show up on him in a car unless the rope somehow magically went through the roof." Glancing at his brother, Sam could tell Dean was guessing the same thing he was, the coroner's assistant had probably just told them what really happened. "And you know, we're not even sure it was a rope that they were hung with anyway."

"Really?" Sam asked, looking back down at Roger's neck. "They look like rope marks."

"Yes I know," the assistant agreed and reached down to finger the ligature marks. "But we can't make a solid conclusion due to the lack of transference."

Dean straightened up, glancing at his brother quickly before smiling oddly. He had no idea what the man was talking about. "Of course you would need some kind of transference to tell what kind of weapon was used." Sam rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. Dean was the king of bullshitting. The assistant didn't seem to catch on.

"Yeah, it's very strange. Usually we find fibers or scrapings." Sam watched as the light clicked on in his brother's head. Could be a spirit using phantom rope. "But there was nothing. Not even dirt."

"Yeah that's weird," Dean muttered, but he changed gears so quickly Sam nor the assistant had time to dwell on his lack of surprise. He pointed to Roger's hands. "What are these marks?" he asked, referring to the abrasions and cuts littering Roger's massive hands. Some were deep, some were just nicks. They looked fairly fresh.

The coroner's assistant leaned over to look at them. "Defensive wounds. From a knife."

"What?" Sam and Dean asked at the same time. Defensive wounds? That didn't make any sense. If it was a spirit with a rope hanging its victims, why would they have defensive wounds from a knife attack on their hands? "Do all of them have these?" Sam asked.

"No, just a couple," he answered. "It's actually really strange. Defensive wounds, but no stab wounds. It makes you wonder how they go from fighting off a knife brandishing attacker to just letting themselves be hung. Good luck to you guys figuring out what happened."

"Yeah," Dean echoed, unamused.

Their conversation was cut off as the door to the morgue suddenly swung open. Sam and Dean both whirled, instincts causing them both to tense and prepare for a fight, but the woman standing in the doorway was far from the noose-totting ghost they'd been expecting. Though the look on her face probably had enough potency to be just as frightening. She was a typical coroner, middle aged, graying hair, dark rimmed glasses. The only thing she was missing was a cane and a limp. Sam guessed this was Dr. Lashinger, the coroner in charge.

"What's going on here?" she barked, eyes lowering as she spotted the Winchesters. "Mr. Harper I thought I told you no one was to come in here?" Dr. Lashinger strode over to Roger Carlton and quickly covered the body with the white sheet again, leaving a hand on it as she turned to stare at Sam and Dean. "Who are you? Let me see some credentials. How did you even get back here?" She asked the questions rapidly, the last one aimed back at Harper, her assistant. The man looked fearful of his life. Sam didn't blame him. This was going to be tricky.

"Dr. Lashinger," Sam acknowledged and held out his hand. "I'm Dr. Cass and this is Dr. Novak." She didn't take his hand. He withdrew it, kept the smile. "We were called in from the coroner's office in Augusta to help with the case."

The frown she gave him almost made him falter. It was one of those appraising looks, like a mother gives to a child whom she knows is lying. No Mom, I didn't do anything wrong, don't call the feds.

"They don't think I can handle it on my own." It wasn't a question. Sam glanced at Dean, unsure how to respond. Dean just gave a small shrug as the coroner carried on. "Typical chauvinistic assholes. Agent Reed sent you, didn't he?" She didn't give either of them time to respond. "Damn that man. I told him I could handle this on my own. Harper, go get these gentlemen some smocks. You didn't bring any of your supplies, did you?"

Sam, a little taken aback by the woman's scattered mumblings, let Dean do the talking. "We were told you would be supplying us with what we needed."

"Of course you were," she grumbled before turning to glare at Harper, who hadn't moved. The man seemed to snap to attention and scurried off. She watched him until the door closed behind him and then turned back to Sam, eyes still cold. "How much did Mr. Harper tell you?"

"He basically covered everything," Sam said, glancing at Dean again. It was time to go. They got everything they needed here. No use playing along anymore. Besides, their cover wasn't really the best. All Dr. Lashinger had to do was make a single phone call to find out they weren't who they said they were. He opened his mouth to announce they were leaving, but the coroner beat him to it.

"Nine bodies," she said, uncovering Roger's face once more. She put a gloved hand to the ligature marks on his neck. "This guy's good, whoever he is. That's a lot of work for one person. If we were back in Texas, the state would already have a chair light up for him."

Dean snorted and Sam spoke up when he saw the glare Lashinger shot him. "How do you know it's the same person? Your assistant said that some of the victims had defensive wounds and some didn't. Maybe there are two. The original killer and a copy cat." The defensive wounds were still bothering Sam. When spirits attacked, they usually did so in the same fashion every time. So maybe it wasn't a spirit? A demon maybe? But demon's usually didn't use weapons. They just sort of...ripped.

"Killer left a calling card," Dr. Lashinger broke into Sam's thoughts.

"A calling card?" Dean asked, interested.

Dr. Lashinger nodded. "Yes," she paused, looking between both of them as if they should know what she was talking about. Sam guessed they probably should know, if they were who they said they were. "The marks on their forehead?" She gave a shake of her head.

"Oh, right," Dean chirped. "They had the uh...the um..." he pointed at his forehead, pretending to be at a loss for the word.

"The crosses," Dr. Lashinger nodded.

"Yeah," Dean pointed a finger at her with fake appreciation.

Dr. Lashinger sighed. "As much as I hate the idiots the FBI sent to help us with this, I have to admit that they are thorough in their containment of information. We never told the press about the marks. The public doesn't know except for the few people who found the poor bastards. No, it's the same guy all right. Vicious son of a bitch. Hanging's not a fun way to go. Not the quickest either. You know a few years ago they revived a man who'd been hung for thirty minutes? Could you imagine? Of course he was unconscious, but still. Thirty minutes of just hanging there, only to end up brain dead. He never woke up." Dr. Lashinger's eyes took on a distant look and Sam was suddenly hit with that apprehensive feeling in the pit of his stomach like he'd felt at the Carlton house. His hand flew up and he bent slightly at the waist, grimacing.

Dean noticed the movement and while Sam was still gathering his wits about him, he took initiative. "Thanks Doc for the help," Dean said, grabbing Sam's arm and starting to walk towards the door, pulling his little brother along with him. "We're gonna go get settled at the hotel, go over more paperwork, you know how it is. Stiffs have more paperwork than Jesus these days."

"Sure," Dr. Lashinger said with a shrug, her nose upturned. "There's nothing to do here anyway except to wait for the next body to roll in." Sam had gathered himself enough to recognize half hearted laugh his brother gave as being a combination of both admiration and appraisal of people he deemed nutty. Dr. Lashinger was a borderline nut. In Dean's book anyway. "Hey, is there a number I can get a hold of you guys at?" she called after them.

"We'll leave it at the front desk," Dean called back before ushering Sam out the front door and down towards the Impala. Sam shrugged off Dean's steadying hand, long since not needing it. Though Dean wasn't so easily brushed off. "Sammy?" he questioned, eyes searching Sam for any sign of distress.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam took a deep breath to prove it before heading towards the passenger side door.

Dean remained where he was, but his head followed Sam. "You sure?" he asked. "Because you had that gasy look on your face again."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam sighed, irritated. "It's just...I got that weird feeling again. It was stronger this time."

"Maybe you just gotta take a crap?" Dean offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sam didn't grace his brother with an answer. He merely glared before throwing open the door and climbing inside. Dean stayed where he was for a moment, watching the coroner's office as if it would grow teeth and devour them any second. But after a moment, he followed his brother and climbed into the Impala as well. He started the car and looked over at Sam, who sat almost pouting. "So this feeling..."

"I don't know how to explain it," Sam snapped, not looking over at him. "I just feel like something bad's gonna happen."

"There's no visions or anything, right?" Sam shook his head and finally looked at his brother. "Then we're fine. Until you start day dreaming again, we're not going to worry about it."

"I don't know," Sam interjected. "I've never felt like this before. I don't know." He leaned his head against the window and sighed. How could he explain a feeling he didn't even understand himself? It was like a panicked feeling, but not as intense. It was foreboding, but at the same time, he couldn't do anything but accept it. It was like his gut knew of a fate that was bound to happen but wasn't informing his brain to the matter. There was a detachment there that Sam wasn't understanding.

They sat quietly for a moment with the car running, Sam lost in his thoughts, Dean trying to understand what was going on with his brother. After a few minutes, Dean let out a long, dramatic sigh, earning Sam's attention. "Well look," he started, leaning against the door and turning himself so he was facing Sam as best he could. "It's getting late, I'm tired, _you're_ tired, we got a lot done today why don't we just go back to the motel and pick up in the morning."

"I don't need your pity, Dean," Sam said, watching as his brother guffawed and held a hand to his chest.

"Pity?" he exclaimed, falsely shocked. "I don't pity you Sammy, no matter how pitiful you are. I'm dog tired, man. It's hard charming your way into important places all day."

It was Sam's turn to let out an incredulous laugh. "Charm? Dean, so far today, you've managed to piss off two coroners and freak out an old lady. Real charming."

"Hey," Dean barked, switching the car into gear and heading towards the motel. "That lady coroner was totally checking me out."

"Man, she's like forty years old," Sam laughed as he realized what his brother was doing. Dean did it every time he thought Sam was even remotely upset or at ill ease. He'd get them off topic, makes jokes, laugh, and get Sam's mind off of whatever was bugging him. Most of the time Sam appreciated it, he even instigated a few of their off topic banters. But lately he'd just been getting annoyed with them. Annoyed because his brother always took it upon himself to make light of situations, to look out for everyone but himself, to make sure everyone else was happy when Sam wasn't sure whether Dean was ever happy or not. And dammit if this banter was the only way Sam knew how to make him laugh.

Dean gave a sly grin and leaned back in his chair. "Older women are more experienced, Sammy."

"Dean, she's married," Sam played along. For now. Until Dean got out of this funk he was in, which Sam hoped would be soon.

"Dude, how do you know that?" Dean asked, looking at Sam's head and raising his eyebrows.

Sam merely rolled his eyes and held up his hand, pointing to his ring finger. "She had a wedding band, dork."

"Huh," Dean gave, chewing the side of his lip. Then he grinned again. "Well I guess I've stopped looking for that sort of stuff. Broadens the playing field."

Sam shook his head and looked back out the front window. "You're a sick man, Dean."


End file.
